The Old Men Pt II
by Aitrus5
Summary: A second short story set years after the events of Myst.


The Old Men   
  
Pt 2.   
  
It was Night.   
Tangles of massive trees grew together like a spider web run amuk. Leaves dropped into the cold wind, their   
colors washed into the darkenss by the moonlight overhead.   
Shadows grew from their living counterparts. The only sounds were the low moan of the wind and the flutter   
of the leaves. Until the animal's footsteps scraped along the stones.   
There was not another being in sight. The hairy mammal walked along on all fours beneath the tangled trees,   
large body edging between the massive trunks. Large bony horns stuck out of it's head and above the liquid   
brown eyes. A porcine nose sneezed in the night air. Ghosts of old scents long gone, past markings of others like itself, all were caught and analyzed. The animal strode through slowly, feeding on tender shoots growing at the base of trees here and there. It's ears swivled on stalks, magnifying the sounds of the night.   
Normally, it walked through here most nights, through the forest and out into the meadows beyond. It had done this routinely, ever since it had found the new territory.   
The chewing stopped. The ear-stalks quivered, opening to their fullest.   
It could see and hear nothing out of the ordinary. But something, some ill-defined sense, told it that it was   
no longer alone in the night.   
It knew it was being watched. The sense wouldn't go away like it usually did.   
Then it gave way to a sense of being hunted.   
Hackles ruffled. It gave a low grunt and nervously pawed the ground. Nostrils flared, seeking, searching. Eyes rolled around in their sockets. Foam dripped from the mouth.   
It knew, if it could reach the saftey of the meadow, it could outrun whatever it was. It's hooves did not move, however.   
It's eyes ached from staring unblinking into the shadows, darting from one tree to the next, not knowing which concealed the hunter but knowing that it was there, perhaps even moving closer with uncanny silence.   
A small whine of animal fear escaped it's throat. Terror raced through it of which it had never known before.   
The animal started moving in a circle, horns lowered, waiting for something, anything, to burst from the   
shadows and attack.   
But the attack came from above.   
A howl stunned it's sensitive ear stalks and they retracted instantly. It took one step forward and grunted in   
horror as a large form slammed into it's back from above.   
It reared instinctively, but the struggling form held on, shrieking in fury. A hand gripped a horn as the form moved closer towards it's head. It bucked and ground itself against trees in a mad dash, but the figure held on.   
Brown eyes bulged as pain blossomed in it's throat, a sharp line of red contrasting with the brown of the   
leaves.   
It felt the life streaming out of it, and sought to run. Surprisingly, the thing slid off it's back and stood away. It caught a brief glimpse of the large, dark form. The animal immediately plunged into the trees with a wail, running from this horrible thing of pain.   
It could feel the life flowing down it's front legs, and the tiredness that began to overtake it spurred it to run   
even faster, trying to outrun the thing that hunted it.   
Trying to outrun the inevitable.   
The trees scratched against it's shaggy hide, drawing deep scratches. The clearing drew closer.   
It's earstalks quivered in fear as it sensed the thing running after it in a smooth gait, not hurrying, not walking.   
Then the animal began to slow down, hooves dragging along the ground, stumbling. It was weakening rapidly, flanks shuddering and mouth dripping with blood-flecked saliva.   
Finally with a groan, it collapsed. It was only yards from the clearing. Blood poured slowly onto the ground.   
Ear stalks retracted as the thing strode up on two legs. One brown eye rolled in terror as the thing made several large triumphant sounds, seconds apart.   
The hunter knelt next to it, and ran an appendage over the heaving ribs, coming to a rest just below them.   
Something glittered in the moonlight, and then the animal felt several sharp pains in it's abdomen. The last thing it saw before it gasped and died was it's own blood pour onto the ground.   
  
The old man carefully removed the bowels of the prey with his bone knife. Brought the still steaming pile to his lips and sniffed in rapture.   
"That was a good one, wasn't it Sirrus?"   
His brother agreed modestly but couldn't he have put a little more finesse into it?   
"I told you, I hate it when you use words I don't understand."   
His voice was grating, yet strong. Far from the high-pitched ravings of his youth.   
He was huge. Age spotted skin stretched over toughened muscles that had never been less than fit. Nails bitten to points clenched a serrated bone knife. A skin pouch was slung over one shoulder.   
He smiled, teeth standing out against his deeply tanned skin. His white, bushy beard covered his chest. One day, when he attained enough skill, he would skin the entire prey before it died.   
He ate what he could, then wrapped the rest in the skin for the trip back. Nothing was to be wasted, after all.   
He'd learned that from his brother.   
The old man's domain stretched as far as he could see. He'd walked only so far in each direction, then back to his cave. To the north, there was nothing but seas of ice. Enough snow to rival that of Rime. Nothing there but bitter cold and prey he hadn't learned how to kill yet.   
East and west, there was a small amount of grassland, and then ocean. Islands in the distance. He'd swum out to a few, and come back with nothing but a growing knowledge that he was indeed alone.   
South was where he roamed the most, exploring the caves and mountains. Rolling hills marked that part of the Age, fjords poking inward from the east and west. His cave marked the center of the penninsula.   
"No, I don't think we'll find a book today." he said as he walked. "We've searched pretty much everywhere." He giggled. "Maybe something swallowed it."   
When they reached the cave, he kicked the bones away and hung the kill up by the ceiling and quickly built   
a fire, clacking together an old scalpel and a rock that had certain properties, so his brother had told him.   
His old tool kit sat reverently on an altar of rock, a stone slab ten feet long, large enough to hold anything that   
he could carry back. Old black blood and new brownish colors stained it's length. Knife cuts dug into the stone. The tool kit was the only thing he'd brought with him when he'd linked into the Blue Book.   
Somehow, his brother had followed him though. He'd thought he'd be free of his cursed sibling forever. Free of the torments and the laughs and the constant, infuriating tone of superiority. Sirrus was the eldest. Sirrus was smarter. Father thought better of him.   
Well, didn't he, dear brother? All you were good for was manual labor.   
"Shut up!" he shouted at the air.   
He wished he had his cage on Mechanical. That had been a marvelous way of making his prey silent, the only sounds they made being shrieks of pain and then only when he wanted them too.   
Sometimes he was not aware of the passage of time for years. His brother's voice was the only voice he had heard for decades. How did one measure time when a single day seemed as a single year?   
As the months passed, he'd taken wider and wider routes from his cave. At first, he searched for a linking book. Then it was simply exploration. When he was in a purely survival state of mind, his brother's quips faded like   
snow melting.   
He carved and painted occaisionally using blunted knives and berries on the cave walls. Shown his triumphs. His memories. The sacrifices on Channelwood.   
His brother laughed. Remember the looks on their faces when Father left them with us again? I thought they were all going to cry.   
The pirates he'd tortured and beheaded on Mechanical while the survivors of the Black Ship attacks cowered before him. It had been so much fun.   
Sure, fun for you, dear brother, but what about me?   
"Quiet!" he barked.   
Ruling isn't all fun and games, you know...torturing and killing is fine...but you need to have subjects remaining in order to be a king, dear brother.   
"I never wanted to be a King!" the hunter growled, tearing into a piece of meat.   
No, not you, you're just a dog who needs feeding every once in a while or it goes mad.   
The old man shut his eyes tightly and ground his teeth. The knife drew a deep line down the stone slab, tracing through dried blood of years past.   
Covering up your victims was hard enough, you stupid clod. Try ruling the Ages sometime.   
The voice snarled. Oh, that's right, I'd forgotten, you BURNED most of them!   
It had been his biggest kill ever. Millions of prey lost in a single toss of a match. He could still smell the   
burning pages if he concentrated hard enough.   
They're not really dead you fool, we just-   
The old man picked up a chunk of rock and pounded his head until his brother went away. It came away sticky and red.   
It reminded him of the time he'd fallen out of the Great Tree on Myst. He had just knew he would reach the top this time. Sirrus had yelled at him to get down from there and why was he interested in climbing a silly old tree anyway? And his laughter had followed him all the way down. His mother had shrieked once and flew over like a bird. She'd carried him into the cabin, cooing and stroking his sobbing face. She'd bandaged him and brought him a warm drink and rocked him until the hurt went away. Father hadn't looked up once from his writing and then a week later had asked what was wrong with his head.   
You are truly pathetic, dear brother. You're alone. Without me, you're nothing. NOTHING. I was always fixing your messy mistakes, explaining everything to you. Such a little whiner. The voice sighed in exasperation. Why, I don't know why you don't just end it all right no-   
"NO! NO! NO!" He pounded his head so hard he fell to his knees. The stone came away brighter, some of it trickling down his arm.   
He fought to keep his meal from rushing up.   
He would go hunt again. Kill something else. Make his brother go away. Lose himself in the hunt.   
But he found himself unable to rise and his knees gave away beneath him and he slid to the ground.   
He felt cold.   
He knew finally that his brother would not trouble him anymore, that he was joining his prey in wherever they   
went.   
And the old man died laughing, high-pitched and free.   
  
The End 


End file.
